Chapter 5
Five
That the Covent Garden theatre was near bursting at eight o’clock was a sure sign that the London social Season was in full swing.
Ambrose weaved his way through the large but crowded hallway.
On the left were doors at regular intervals, leading to the private boxes facing the stage.
Enthusiastic theatre-goers in their finery filled the red velvet benches that lined the walls.
The air was close with the perfume of hundreds of ladies.
He nodded at a few acquaintances but could not stop for pleasantries. He did not want to keep Miss Bullocke waiting. The play, Romeo and Juliet, was something he was certainly in no hurry to see.
Thanks to his matrimonial efforts, he had attended several performances of the Shakespearean tragedy—once with his friend Rowan Ashworth, who was filled with interesting information about the play.
Ambrose enjoyed the sword fights and musical numbers but had little use for the masquerade and overwrought dialogue about love.
His purpose tonight had nothing to do with love. He was there to ascertain Miss Bullocke’s intelligence and temperament. Based on their dance earlier that week, he was optimistic. Being invited to join the Bullocke family in their box was a mark of favor he had not expected but welcomed.
When he reached the Bullockes’ box, he took a moment to compose himself before entering. A needless effort, for the elegant seating area was empty. It seemed that Miss Bullocke, her parents, her married sister, and her cousin were of the sort to arrive after nine.
Instead of frustration at their tardiness, Ambrose felt a loosening in his chest. He threw himself into the nearest blue chair and sighed.
His search for a wife was proving more taxing than he had anticipated.
Social functions filled almost every night and many afternoons.
Each one required his full attention and best behavior.
A half hour alone in the box sounded like heaven.
From his seat, he glanced out at the brightly lit theatre.
On stage, Romeo and Juliet were getting married in front of an elaborate set.
Knowing what came next, he let his attention wander to the audience.
It was strange, the perspective a new box could afford.
At this higher angle, he could look down into the lower circle of boxes and observe the couples leaning too close and secretly touching.
Feeling like a voyeur, he glanced back up to those seated on his level. His gaze stalled when he looked right and saw the unmistakable profile of Miss Susanna Fenton. He sat forward to view her better and watched as she smiled at the stage and tucked an errant blonde hair behind her ear.
A survey of her box revealed her aunt and a mix of older and younger people he did not know.
He was forever seeing Miss Fenton but never speaking to her.
At first he thought it a product of circumstances, but he began to speculate that she was avoiding him.
When he saw her rush out of Ackermann’s, he feared it was on his account.
If he had not been escorting a lady, he might have chased after her.
He had let the silence between them persist for too long. Miss Fenton deserved an apology. He could go to her box and do his duty. He counted the boxes to determine which one she was in. When his counting brought him back to her, she was looking in his direction.
He smiled. She turned her attention to the stage. He frowned. Had she seen him? He was sitting in the back, so perhaps she had not noticed him. Standing, he moved to a seat in the front of his box.
Attempting discretion, he watched her from the corner of his eye. On the stage Tybalt was challenging Romeo to a duel. The action was exciting, so it was even more interesting when Miss Fenton’s gaze lifted and shifted toward him.
Ambrose counted to ten, and her eyes did not withdraw. Then he swiveled his head to meet her gaze. She immediately looked away, like a kid caught with stolen sweets. The insult was unmistakable.
He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. A part of him wanted to storm to her box and force her to acknowledge him. But he did not need to subject himself to humiliation at her hands. He was meeting Miss Bullocke, a woman who welcomed his attentions and did not mock him at every turn.
Why did Miss Fenton’s opinion matter to him? Was it a consequence of growing up with her?
On stage Mercutio and Tybalt were dying melodramatically. As the scene ended, sniffles and cries from the audience echoed into the silence. Ambrose did not understand the reaction. He had been more moved by the family holiday theatricals in Shropshire.
Until Ambrose was fourteen, the Hartleys and the Fentons would spend much of the Christmas holidays preparing a theatrical to perform on Twelfth Night. It was a tradition started by Victoria Hartley and Charlotte Fenton—the eldest girls.
As the youngest, Ambrose participated in every performance, but he was far from the most talented.
He thought that honor belonged to Grace.
Miss Fenton, or Miss Susie as they all called her, was the most enthusiastic performer.
Her brothers always teased her for being too loud, but Ambrose had admired her energy and fearlessness.
Few people lived life as unapologetically as Susanna Fenton.
At fourteen, Ambrose returned from school and discovered that there would be no theatrical.
The youngest, Mark Fenton, was off to sea.
Grace and Susanna, now sixteen, were consumed with gentlemen and who they would dance with at the Twelfth Night ball.
That was the first year Ambrose had wished to be with his school friends instead of at home.
It was also when he started calling her Miss Susanna.
The next year she became Miss Fenton.
The dividing of their lives had begun all those years ago. Susanna Fenton was a part of his past, and he was looking to the future.